Not a Hero
by stripeyjumpers
Summary: "I'm not a sidekick, and I'm not afraid." John has finally had enough of being treated as Sherlock's sidekick, but trying to be a hero turns out to be a far worse endeavor. Reviews are welcome


Sherlock didn't even have time to register what was happening before he felt John's icy cold fingers clasp down on his wrist and tug him violently out of the way. A chunk of ceiling just narrowly missed Sherlock's scalp as John dragged him out of the collapsing building. The walls were crumbling around them as the pair finally made their way out and settled in a nearby alleyway. Backed up against the cool brick and breathing heavily, John didn't loosen his tight grip on the detective's wrist.

"You're a bloody idiot Sherlock!" John exclaimed as he finally let go of Sherlock's arm, leaving a pinkish indentation behind.

"Right, I'm the idiot, John." Sherlock panted.

"The Yard's waiting down the street; let's go before they send a search party."

The two dusted themselves off, trying to catch their breath and walk as steadily as they could. Finally they saw the flashing lights and could see the silver-grey top of Lestrade's head in the distance. A look of irritation and relief swept over the detective inspector's face as he saw John and Sherlock approaching.

"Finally! Jesus you two were about ready to give me a heart attack!"

"I find that highly unlikely Lestrade, we were in no imminent danger." Sherlock spat as he examined the rest of the scene.

"No danger? Are you joking? Sherlock you ran into a bloody burning building all 'cause I said the suspect _might_ still be in there!"

"I still don't see the issue."

John huffed out of frustration next to the detective.

"And what's your problem?" Sherlock snapped at John. "I didn't _ask_ you to come running in after me! "

John just glared at him evilly, and was about to speak his mind when Sherlock turned to greet Sergeant Donovan as she walked up behind Lestrade.

"Ah, Sally! And how was your evening last night? Did you tell Anderson hello like I'd asked?"

"Don't start with me freak, I'm not in the mood."

"I take it Anderson's wife wasn't very pleased when she came home early then?"

John and Lestrade just exchanged flustered looks.

"You know what Sherlock you just be lucky you're even still here, you act all tough but god knows where you'd be without your little sidekick." She didn't hold back from shooting a sharp glare at John.

"Maybe you should take a day off Sally."

"Maybe you should—"

"Alright alright!" Lestrade shouted with a hand between the two parties. "Take it down a notch you two; this is a crime scene not an insult contest."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "If it were I would have won." He mumbled under his breath.

"Listen," Lestrade started, "I need you all to calm down and just work together. This guy's gotten two victims and destroyed three buildings in the process. We all need to be on the lookout and stay focused."

"Of course Lestrade, no reason to get distracted. Come along John, we've got work to do."

John gave one more stern glare to Sally before turning around and following the detective.

"You see that?" Sally shouted after Sherlock, "Follows you like a dog! Poor soul!"

* * *

John practically slammed the keys down on the kitchen table as he headed toward the kettle.

"What's got your jumper in a knot?" Sherlock's monotone voice came from the living room as he settled himself in front of John's laptop.

"What's got my _what_? Sherlock, you can't be serious."

"When am I ever joking?"

"I don't know but this time you _have got_ to be kidding because if you can't deduce why I'm upset then I will seriously begin to question your intelligence."

"John, you were the one who rudely interrupted my chasing of the suspect, and now he's free wherever he is and the case still isn't solved. Out of the two of us I believe I have the right to be flustered."

"Do you know what? Forget it, Sherlock. Obviously this is way over your head. I'm going to sleep for the next year, don't bother me." He sighed as he heaved himself up the stairs, slamming the door behind him.

"You left the kettle on, John!" Sherlock shouted from his chair.

"Deduce how to turn it off Sherlock!" came John's muffled yell from behind his door.

* * *

"You still don't get it, do you?" John asked as he crinkled the newspaper closed in front of him.

"Hm?" Sherlock barely looked up at the doctor as he sat at the desk, engrossed in a bright computer screen.

"Why I was upset the other day, you don't get it."

"You're still angry."

"Mm, good. How long did it take you to infer that one?"

"About point-four seconds, why?"

"You do realize I pretty much saved your life right?"

"Yes, but isn't that what sidekicks do, John?" Sherlock asked without even sparing John a glance.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" John folded the newspaper and set it aside.

"I said that's what sidekicks do, rush in and save the day, right?"

"Save the hero you mean?"

"I'm not a hero, John."

"And I'm not a _sidekick_! What on earth possessed you to say that?! This isn't bloody Batman and Robin, Sherlock!"

For the first time in their conversation, Sherlock turned his head, however slightly, in John's direction. "That is what Donovan called you though, yes? A sidekick."

"Since when do you listen to _her_?" John's voice was beginning to sound almost like a whimper.

"Do calm yourself John, it was a joke."

"What was?"

"Calling you a sidekick, I was only trying to humor you, you can settle down now."

"A _joke_? That's your idea of a joke?"

Sherlock huffed and closed the laptop down hard. "Yes, John, I was only kidding, I thought you wanted me to joke more! I don't understand why you're getting so particularly upset about this."

"Because I'm not your sidekick Sherlock!" John's face was beginning to turn a slightly reddish hue.

"I never meant it John, I know full well you're not my sidekick."

John's angry scowl suddenly turned into an expression of disbelief and almost exhaustion. "No, d'you know why I'm so upset over this? Because I think you _did_ mean it, even if you won't admit it. I think deep down you do think of me as your sidekick, your assistant, your _secretary_."

"My secretary? How could you think that? By now you must know your importance to me."

"Really? Because it seems to me you only acknowledge me when you need me for something. Have you ever once called me downstairs just to spend time with me? Have you ever texted me just to ask how I was doing? Think about it Sherlock, think long and hard about all the times you needed me, what was it really for?"

Sherlock just sat deep in thought for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth over the carpet. "A case." He murmured quietly.

"Exactly!" John exclaimed. "A case, Sherlock. Or to fetch you a pen that was three feet in front of you. And you know what? I'm twice the fool for always following every demand."

"John, you misunderstand me. I promise you I don't think of you that way."

"Mhm. Then how do you think of me?"

"I don't know; you're just John. You're always there when I need you, or when I need…something."

John smiled sarcastically and pushed himself up from the armchair. "Mm, just as I thought, when you need something. Because who needs real friendship when you've got a fricking errand boy!" John picked up his coat from the couch and began pulling his arms through the sleeves.

"Where are you going? John you are not my errand boy!"

"Really? Let's see, I do all the shopping, all the cleaning, I fetch you things, I make you meals you don't even eat, what the hell am I even doing here? And for all the things I help you with on a case at the end of the day it's still the great Sherlock Holmes who gets all the credit!"

John slipped his hand in a glove and faced the door. Sherlock got up and stood not too far behind him.

"I do not take all the credit, why are you saying these things? Plus it's not like I ask you to clean up after me, or make me food, or chase through a burning building to rescue me!"

And that was the last straw for John. He simply turned and glared up at Sherlock while fixing his other glove. "I'm leaving now. Don't be surprised if you don't hear from me for a couple days." His voice was surprisingly calm.

Sherlock said nothing as John opened up the door and closed it softly behind him.

* * *

John could see a cloud of his breath form in front of him as he sighed into the chilled winter air. He walked steadily down the sidewalk with his fists balled up in his pockets and no destination in mind. As he strode over the grey cement he felt his pocket vibrate. Fighting the urge to ignore the message, he lifted his mobile from his jacket and checked it. It was from Lestrade:

_Suspect's hideout has been confirmed to be 439 Belfast Ave. I need you and John to take a look. –GL_

The text had been meant for Sherlock, and realizing this John stopped in his tracks. He looked back at the way he'd came, then shook his head, shoved the phone in his pocket and kept walking. _Sherlock needs me, I don't need him._ John thought as he stopped at a corner and hailed a cab.

_Sidekicks can be heroes too. _He assured himself as he gave the cab driver the address that Lestrade had texted him.

* * *

Curiosity had begun to swell in John's brain as the cab ride drew longer and longer. The scenery had changed considerably to a more suburban appeal, and eventually more like farm land. There were giant office buildings spread far apart, and John furrowed his brow realizing he hadn't even considered how far away the address was. The cab driver had just punched it into his GPS without saying a word. After another minute or so of unfamiliar images passing over the window like a film reel, the cab slowed and pulled over to the side of the road. When John looked out the window all he could see was a string of abandoned buildings.

When John opened up the door and handed over more money than he wanted, the cab driver pointed at one of the buildings. "See there? 439 is the big grey one."

John managed to mumble a thanks before the driver sped off down the lonely road.

_They're all big grey ones_. John sniggered to himself, but knew the one the driver was referring to and began stepping through the un-mowed grass. The grass blades were covered in frost and made a crisp crunching sound as the doctor's boots trotted over them. The harsh wind chipped bitterly at John's face as he stepped up to the decrepit concrete structure.

He took one deep breath of bitter air as he headed inside through a large crack in the wall. The interior was just as slate grey as the outside, and was nothing but corridors and halls lined with deteriorating fluorescent lights. It wasn't until he was halfway down a hallway did he finally start to question exactly why he was here.

_I don't need Sherlock. I can find this guy and take him down with my bare hands. I'm a soldier for god's sake; I was trained for this, not for remembering to pick up exactly the right brand of milk. I'm not a sidekick, and I'm not afraid._

John's inner monologue seemed to comfort him as he clenched his fists at his side, just waiting for the slightest sign of movement so he could pounce. And that's when he heard it, the slight shuffling of feet from down the hall. His eyes shot wide open and his breathing practically stopped at the acknowledgement of another presence.

The presence soon showed itself as it turned the corner toward John. It was a split second, a flash, over before it had even begun. All John saw was a blur of a man dressed in all black, including his face, as he turned the corner, spotted John, and immediately retreated back around.

"Hey!" John shouted, with his yelp reverberating off the hollow walls.

John picked up his pace and lightly jogged down to the corner. Upon turning it he could see the black figure once more, trying to make a run for it. John instinctively chased after, and soon caught up with the man, about twenty feet behind him. They were speeding down the stretched hallway until the suspect decided to take a sharp right turn into a small room. John followed suit, and was about to ram his fist straight into the stranger's face, but was caught off guard when the man immediately grabbed John's shoulders and pounded his head against the wall.

John landed with a dull thud onto the cold concrete floor, and didn't have the time to help himself up before the suspect fled, shutting and ultimately locking the door behind him.

Pushing himself up, he placed a shaking hand onto the doorknob, only to find the thick, heavy-grade door hopelessly locked. He wriggled the handle, breathing heavily, and was about to take out his mobile and surrender to other's assistance when the ground seemed to shake beneath him.

John heard the explosion more than saw it, because his vision was immediately flooded with clouds of dust and debris shooting at his eyes. He was flung backwards, landing on his side, and didn't even have the chance to open his eyes before he felt the most searing, unbelievable amount of pain he'd felt in his entire life.

A large chunk of the concrete ceiling had descended upon his legs, bringing along small boulders of debris with it. John could practically hear his bones cracking under the weight. The building was slowly starting to settle itself, but he was trapped.

After the clouds of dust finally began to clear, John's heavy lids dragged open. The grey walls all blurred together in a deep haze as black spots flickered over his vision. He began to have a coughing fit, knowing full well that his lungs must have been filled to the brim with ash and dust. The more he coughed, the more his ribcage cried out in pain. He lifted a weak arm towards his jacket pocket, pulling out what was now left of his mobile. It had been shattered to pieces, and John used the energy from this sudden frustration to fling the phone violently at the wall.

He panted and coughed as if tossing the phone were a vigorous athletic activity. His breaths were short and painful and his legs were practically numb. He coughed and wheezed a bit more angrily, and his heart sunk deep in his chest when he could taste warm blood on his lips.

* * *

Sherlock's mobile buzzed incessantly as he sat in his armchair with his face buried in a book. He glanced over and saw Lestrade on the caller ID, reluctantly picking up.

"What is it Lestrade?" he practically grumbled.

"Sherlock? Oh my god Sherlock are you okay?" Lestrade's voice was riddled with manic and concern.

"Of course I'm okay what are you talking about?"

"What? Sherlock, I just got news about the explosion. Some bloke heard it all the way down the road. Is John okay?"

"What explosion? John isn't here."

Lestrade was silent for a moment, the only noise coming from the other end being his heavy breathing. "The explosion at the hideout, Sherlock, the address I texted you. Aren't you and John there?"

"What address? Lestrade I haven't received a text from you the entire day."

"Oh shit…I think I might've sent it to John instead."

"So? John is angry with me Lestrade; he wouldn't have been in the mood to go catching criminals."

"Sherlock—"

"Wait," Sherlock interrupted, suddenly bolting upright from his chair. "Lestrade, we need to get to that building now." His voice was suddenly stricken with urgency.

"Alright, I'm heading over now, be ready."

"Lestrade wait! Bring an ambulance."

"Of course Sherlock."

They disconnected and Sherlock flung on his coat, bounding through the door.

* * *

The walls of the building looked like cake crumbs from a distance as the inspector and detective sped down the narrow road, an ambulance blaring a siren and flashing its lights behind them. A considerable amount of cop cars trailed behind them as well.

When the car had finally ground to a halt, the two men practically threw the doors open.

"Lestrade, you and the team look for the suspect, I'll find John." Sherlock panted as he practically ran alongside the grey-haired inspector.

"Got it, and we'll phone you if we find the suspect, or John." He added.

Sherlock just nodded and crept inside the crumbled building through one of the now many large cracks in the wall.

After Lestrade and a few other officers headed down another way, Sherlock set off down a corridor with a flashlight and phone in his hands.

"John!" he shouted, breathing heavily.

"_John!_" his cry was louder that time, as if the fallen debris was somehow blocking the airways.

He wandered aimlessly down a long hallway full of open doors and empty rooms, until he stumbled upon the one door that was shut tight.

"John…" he whispered under his breath as he began pounding his fists on the door.

"John are you in there! John! Answer me!"

From inside the tiny wrecked room, John slowly began to hear a muffled voice. Unfortunately it was getting difficult separating reality from pain induced dreams and hallucinations. His only response was the start of another coughing fit.

With his ear pressed firmly up against the door, Sherlock could hear John's struggled coughs, and immediately dialed Lestrade on his phone.

John could suddenly hear Sherlock's faint voice from outside the hall. He had no idea what he was saying or who he was talking to. All he could register was the voice, and the fiery pain that was building up in his legs and chest.

The black spots began to cloud his vision again, and John was suddenly tempted to run away with them. He needed something to latch on to, and darkness quickly became a viable option. The blackness was tempting him like a sweet smell from another room, pulling him closer and closer, enticing his senses with the promise of nothingness. He could let the darkness take him, it could all go away if he just closed his eyes. John was just about to close his heavy lids when he heard a frantic pounding on the handle of the door.

From the other side, Sherlock was using his metal flashlight to pound the handle in. He used all of the strength he could muster before finally hearing a satisfying snap and shoving the door open.

With wide eyes he rushed over to his half-buried flatmate and kneeled down by his head.

"John, oh my god John, please be okay, please." He cupped John's face in his hands, knowing he was weaving in and out of consciousness.

"John I'm begging you please stay awake. Lestrade knows we found you the paramedics are on their way just please stay with me you are not going anywhere do you understand?"

Possibly in response John coughed up more, sending a small amount of blood dripping down his chin.

"Oh god no…John please…" Sherlock pleaded. He looked over at the large rock weighing down on his friend's fragile legs, and stood up to step over towards it.

"John listen to me, I'm going to move this rock off of you, alright? You have to stay _absolutely still_, and it's going to be painful, but it needs to be done, okay?"

John gave the slightest hint of a nod before Sherlock clasped his hands on the fallen stone. He heaved it backwards towards him, and once he finally felt it lift off of John's legs, he let it crash to the floor in front of him. John was visibly in pain but could do nothing but scrunch his face up and let out a desperate wince.

Sherlock immediately went back to kneeling beside him and cupping his cheek.

"It's going to be okay alright? I know you came here to prove you're not a sidekick John but you never were and you never will be. I need you because you make me happy John, don't you get it?"

In the distance Sherlock could hear the paramedics rushing down the hallway with a stretcher. He rushed out a few more words.

"I'm not a hero, no one is, we're just people. Just people who care deeply for something or someone and are willing to do whatever it takes to keep them safe. You keep me safe John, always, and I could never find the words to thank you."

Finally the paramedics sped in and took over. Lestrade had to practically tug Sherlock out to give the EMT's more room to work.

Sherlock's eyes were damp as Lestrade tried to comfort him, but he just swayed out of Lestrade's hold muttering "I'm sorry," to himself.

* * *

John had been awake for about two days as Sherlock sat hovering over his side in a chair. John's wrist was in a brace, and both of his legs were wrapped firmly in casts with the blanket tucked tightly over his form. He looked up at Sherlock with weary eyes, still slipping back and forth between a drug-induced sleep and a slightly fuzzy reality.

"Sherlock…" John started, awake but behind closed lids. "I'm sorry," he practically whispered.

Sherlock just reached out and uncharacteristically grasped John's hand. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

"I lef' you Sh'lock…din' tell you…thought I could 'andle it…"

"John it's alright it really is. You had reason to be angry. No one should ever feel second best to anyone. I admit I may have taken advantage of you, probably not being able to admit it to myself, guilt being one of the many emotions I fail to grasp."

"Not a hero…" John sighed.

"No, John, and not a sidekick either. You are my partner in crime, partner in solving crime if you want to be specific, but most importantly, you are my friend."

"Friend," John repeated with eyes still gently shut.

"John there's something I never got around to telling you."

"Wassat?" John breathed.

"Thank you," stated the detective.

John furrowed his brow, still incredibly drowsy. "Thans' for what?"

"For saving my life, the other day when the building was collapsing. I was being an idiot, I just didn't wanna say it. So thank you for being there for me, not as an assistant or a secretary or an errand boy, because at the end of the day sidekicks and heroes don't save people, friends do."

John smiled slightly with his eyes closed, and gently squeezed Sherlock's hand before drifting off into a blissful sleep.


End file.
